


sinners and strays

by hoppnhorn



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 11:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17000619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoppnhorn/pseuds/hoppnhorn
Summary: “You being nice to me because I’m a fag?”Steve rolls his eyes, lets his head lull to the side so he can see Billy standing at the end of the couch, fists clenched, ready for a fight.“Would you rather I was a jerk?” He asks, soboredof bullshit. “I can break a plate on your head, if that would make you feel more at home.”Billy flinches and Steve notices. Then suddenly he knows which demons have Billy Hargrove sleeping in his car. Not the same as the ones that chase Steve in his nightmares.But they’re just asreal.





	sinners and strays

**Author's Note:**

> started this as snippets on tumblr but I wanted to get it all down in one place somewhere. i'm hoping to continue. lord knows if i ever will. enjoy!

Billy Hargrove is outed a few months before graduation. It’s a messy story, filled with rumors and blatant _lies_ , and by the time it reaches Steve’s ears, he’s pretty sure it’s all bullshit.

Until he sees Billy sleeping in his car, parked off of Mirkwood in the middle of the night. Steve is only out there himself because he doesn’t _sleep_ much anymore. He doesn’t know how Billy does either, curled up in a cramped Camaro backseat with just a jacket on his shoulders.

He doesn’t even think about knocking on the glass, he just does it. He reaches out and raps a knuckle against the window and Billy leaps a foot in the air, eyes wide in terrible fear. A muted _shit_ follows and Steve remembers that Billy is actually _not_ his friend. Funny part is, before the fight, he didn’t think Billy was his enemy, really.

Maybe a dickhead, but who _isn’t_ in high school?

“What?” Billy snaps at him, not even bothering to make eye contact from the backseat. Steve doesn’t blame him; whatever his reasons for sleeping in his car, they aren’t _good_ ones, and Steve gets that. He has reasons for walking alone in the dark woods at night.

But they aren’t _good_ ones.

“You’re going to freeze.” He states simply. No qualifiers, though they would be easy to add. _If you stay out here all night. If you don’t bundle up._ Billy needs _something_ but it isn’t parenting from someone as under-qualified as Steve.

“I’m fine.” Billy says. He lights a cigarette in the dark and Steve watches a red dot of flame glow as the guy drags hard.

“It’s going to drop below zero tonight.” Steve states facts, again. He’s not stupid. He’s bundled for this weather because he’s lived in _Indiana_ his whole life. He knows that nights like tonight, when it’s so cold your _guts_ hurt, are nights that you spend _inside._

But here he is, watching Billy Hargrove shiver in his car instead of sleeping under a down comforter, in a heated house.

“Do you have anywhere to go?” He asks, bypassing the stupid questions he, no doubt, could come up with. _Why are you sleeping in your car? Why are you here?_

“Sure. That’s why I chose to sleep in my car.” Billy snarks, elbows on his knees so his hands hang between his legs, cigarette smoke steadily filling up the car.

Steve doesn’t think again. After all, it’s cold outside and something about standing on the side of the road makes him feel exposed.

So he opens the passenger-side door and sits in the seat. Like he was invited.

Judging by the look on Billy’s face, he really _wasn’t_.

“Drive me home.” He says plainly, looking over his shoulder at Billy’s unchecked scowl. The guy wrinkles his nose, bares his teeth and Steve cuts him off before he lashes out with what would _probably_ be a great insult. “Do you want a bed to sleep in or not?”

That shuts Billy up. Slowly. His face slides out of drive and into neutral, which Steve realizes is probably the calmest expression he’s ever seen on Billy’s face. It vanishes a second later and then Billy is climbing into the driver’s seat, cigarette perched in his lips.

They don’t say a word when he starts the car. Steve doesn’t even have to tell him which way to go.

His parents had gone to Malibu for some sort of company vacation. A reward for his dad’s hard work or something. Years of service. Whichever. To Steve, it’s just another week alone in a house that he hates in the middle of a town that scares the hell out of him.

Billy doesn’t seem to mind the place though. He walks in and whistles, which makes Steve grimace.

“No wonder they call you King Steve.” The guy mutters. “Jesus.”

“The spare bedroom is upstairs on the right.” He doesn’t bother pointing, or showing Billy which way to go. He’s too tired. Too awake. He wanders back towards the living room, wonders if there’s something he could find to watch on tv in the middle of the night.

Or if he’ll just wind up watching static. White noise is better than silence.

Steve can feel Billy watching him. Can feel the tension in the air when he sits on the sofa with a grunt, feels around for the remote.

He can’t remember where he tossed it last.

Oh well.

“You being nice to me because I’m a fag?”

Steve rolls his eyes, lets his head lull to the side so he can see Billy standing at the end of the couch, fists clenched, ready for a fight.

“Would you rather I was a jerk?” He asks, so _bored_ of bullshit. “I can break a plate on your head, if that would make you feel more at home.”

Billy flinches and Steve notices. Then suddenly he knows which demons have Billy Hargrove sleeping in his car. Not the same as the ones that chase Steve in his nightmares.

But they’re just as _real._

 _“_ I’m _tired._ ” Steve mutters, eyes fixed on Billy’s dwindling cigarette and hard eyes. “You’re tired. Take the damn bed.”

For a second, he wishes he’d gone a different way in the woods. Maybe circled back around to the Byers house.

Something about Joyce’s hugs help him sleep.

“I can’t go home.” Billy says.

For once, Steve sees the truth in Billy’s eyes. He stares from his slumped position on the couch, swallows, his throat tight around his adam’s apple. He’s offered Billy the spare bedroom but he’s pretty sure they’re not talking about a place to stay for the night anymore.

It’s all in the way Billy’s shoulders are starting to soften.

“My parents won’t be home for a week.” Steve offers without hesitation. It doesn’t feel as crazy as it must _seem._ Because it _is_ crazy. It really, truly, is.

“Aren’t you worried about what people will say?” Billy asks, stubbing a smoldering butt into an ashtray. “Letting a faggot stay with you.”

“I haven’t worried about what people think for a while.” He murmurs, eyes slipping from Billy’s face to the woods outside. The branches look like claws to him, sometimes. Reaching up from the dirt. “But I have two rules.” He adds.

Billy’s eyebrow arches.

“You can’t hit me.” Steve cuts right through the elephant in the room and watches Billy twitch. “And you can’t fall in love with me.”

Billy snorts. It’s not an amused sound, really. More like a surprised one. But he doesn’t say anything for a while. Doesn’t move from his spot at the end of the sofa where he stands in his tight jeans, black t-shirt and denim jacket. Billy just stares.

“No promises.”

The guy mutters. Billy doesn’t crack a smile. Doesn’t do anything besides walk away. Steve listens to his footsteps on the stairs, hears him open a bedroom door and close it, and he sighs.

As he gropes around for the remote again, he wonders if the rumors were true. Wonders what it might be like to wake up in bed with Billy Hargrove.

  


He dreams, oddly enough.

Usually he only has nightmares. Vines, coiling around his throat until he can’t breathe, until he can’t scream.

There isn’t much to remember when he blinks awake. Just vague memories of knocking on a window and smearing fogged glass, trying to see inside.

“Who’s Barb?”

It’s not startling to see Billy perched on the end of the couch, jacket missing along with his shoes and socks. He’s carving at an apple with a nasty looking switchblade, taking pieces into his mouth one by one as he stares. Waits.

“She died.” Steve answers matter-of-factly, groans when his neck aches as he sits upright. He’d fallen asleep there, like he usually does. Only this time, he’d been painfully sober. When he passes out drunk, his body is looser somehow. He doesn’t end up in knots. “It was in the papers.”

“You say her name a lot.” Billy states. He chews slowly. Slow enough that Steve can see the white flesh of apple on his tongue. “In your sleep.”

Nancy had once accused him of being bullshit, like he didn’t care that Barb had died in his _fucking_ pool. Truth is, he cares a lot.

Too much probably.

“She’s dead.” He states bluntly and stands, walks across the room to the kitchen. His jeans feel stiff on his skin. He probably needs to change.

It’s been a few days.

There’s coffee in the pot and Steve stares at it. He thought he’d run out of filters.

“I found some in the pantry.” Billy says from over his shoulder and Steve realizes, yeah, he’d said that out loud. He’s just _that_ used to being alone.

Talking to the walls.

He hums some kind of acknowledgement and pours himself a cup. Drinks it over the sink. Billy is chewing again, jaw snapping loud in the quiet kitchen.

“You look like shit, Harrington.”

And, well, he’s not _wrong_.

“You’re welcome.” Steve mutters. He fills his cup again and swallows it. It burns down his throat but it’s a good burn. Not too hot to hurt. He can feel the heat in his belly.

“Why were you out in the woods?”

“Why were you sleeping in your car?” He shoots back without much effort. He’s been waiting to ask since he’d found the Camaro in the dark.

“I’m the faggot son of a fag hater.” The crunch of apple punctuates his point cruelly and Steve actually looks. Stares, really, as Billy leans against the island eating.

Chewing.

“I don’t sleep.” He offers before looking back out the window.

“So wandering around in the woods is something to do?”

Steve isn’t sure _why_ he walks among the trees late at night. Something about needing to keep his _eyes open_.

“Sure.” He finishes his coffee in a long gulp. Groans when the weight in his gut verges on too much.

He can’t remember the last time he ate.

Really, he hasn’t felt the _need_.

“You have no fucking food.” Billy grunts, teeth snapping at crisp apple skin and Steve wonders how much he’d thought aloud.

“Leave a complaint with management.”

He can feel the heat of Billy’s body against his back, can smell the apple on his breath when the guy leans in. Speaks directly into his ear.

“I’ll drive.”

  


He’s surprised when Billy drives them into Hawkins instead of out further to Wooster. It’s easier to avoid gossip if the entire town doesn’t see you eating breakfast with the only outed gay teenager for fifty miles.

Not that Steve cares about being the subject of gossip. He just figured Billy would.

But then again, he doesn’t really know Billy.

No one does, apparently.

“So how much was bullshit?” He blurts over a rapidly cooling pile of blueberry pancakes. The two bites he’d had were good but he can’t help but hate the sweetness.

Billy pauses halfway through a piece of toast, the last part of the massive farmer’s breakfast he’d ordered.

“You want the scoop, Harrington?” Billy snarks, his jaw sharp as he grinds the bite of bread in his molars. Steve can’t stop watching his mouth, he notices. When he speaks, breathes, eats. Everything Billy does, down to the annoying tongue wagging, always draws his eye.

“Carol said you tried to fuck Tommy.” He replies, sticking his fork into the fluffy stack on his plate. Releasing it, he lets it stand there on its own.

Billy stares at it, arches a brow, and snorts.

“I wasn’t _that_ drunk, jesus.” He wrinkes his nose and grabs Steve’s fork, hauls all of the pancakes onto his plate.

Steve just watches, licks his lips subconsciously when Billy gets syrup on his chin.

The guy has _clearly_ missed a few meals. And Steve has the strange impulse to call the waitress back over so he can order more pancakes.

Then let Billy have those too.

Although he’s always wanted to try the bananas foster French toast.

“So if you didn’t try to fuck Tommy, what did you do?”

He sips at his fifth cup of coffee. He’ll be shaking later but at least he doesn’t feel so stretched thin.

“I tried to fuck Daniel.” Billy says nonchalantly, cutting through a pancake with the side of his fork. His eyes are cast down, away, and the closest to shy that Steve has ever seen. He blinks.

Daniel is a junior. A basketball player. Tall, brunet, sort of stupid.

Steve stews on that for a minute, bites the inside of his bottom lip.

“Did you think he was gay?” He finally asks.

“I was horny and I was drunk.” Billy shrugs. “It was dumb.”

“Not as dumb as trying to fuck Tommy.” Steve mutters.

He pretends not to notice Billy watching him as he waves over the waitress. When she fills his mug, he orders the banana foster French toast.

  


Somehow, he manages to get syrup on his shirt and his pants. All in one go. It doesn’t matter all too much; the only person who would even notice is too busy eating the rest of his french toast.

Billy has _definitely_ missed a few meals. But Steve is beginning to think that this isn’t just hunger. This is something else. Like if Billy doesn’t eat, he’ll wither away and die before his very eyes. Evaporate like he’s made of nothing. Or has no purpose.

Or maybe Steve will wake up and realize he was always sitting alone.

“See something you like?” Billy snarks when their eyes meet, and Steve doesn’t bother to look away. Doesn’t care if he’s caught looking because Hargrove is inhaling his meal like it’s his last and Steve couldn’t even muster the energy to finish three bites.

“Do you _breathe_ when you eat, or?” He lazily jabs, taking a sip out of a glass that is mostly ice. The stuff cracks against his teeth.

“Says the idiot who wasn’t going to finish a pile of perfectly good french toast.” Billy’s voice isn’t mean. It’s not even annoyed. He can’t manage but sound anything but _gross_ with a mouthful of food.

Which Steve conveys with the lift of an eyebrow.

But it’s all an act, really.

He’d never intended to eat. He hasn’t felt like eating in months and, honestly, watching Billy eat is ten times more gratifying than feeling full.

When the guy stuffs the last bite of toast in his mouth, the waitress appears with a check. A check that Steve doesn’t even bother looking at before he’s pulling out a money clip full of cash to toss a few bills on the table.

He doesn’t miss the way Billy’s eyes flare.

“Jesus.” The guy slurps some coffee, swallows it down easy though the stuff is still steaming in his mug. It’s incredible how much he’s drank without peeing _once_.

Steve can’t even get through a single mug without feeling like he's going to _explode_.

“You realize it’s dangerous to carry around that kind of cash, right?” Billy asks, eyes silently counting the bills before Steve lifts his hips, slides the clip back into his pocket. For a moment, he feels foolish. Then he remembers the safe in his father’s study and doesn’t feel so foolish.

He wants for nothing, after all.

“You gonna jump me, Hargrove?” He asks, his voice more bored than teasing and Billy watches him. Sees his exhaustion because it mirrors his own. “Or you gonna drive us home?”

The word _home_ sits between them on the table and, strangely enough, Billy doesn’t say a word. He finishes his coffee without comment and Steve is grateful.

  


It’s snowing when they pull into the driveway of the Harrington house, a thin layer just dusting the black of the road. For a second, Steve hopes it’ll come down in droves, bury them deep. But then he catches sight of a flake, floating in front of his nose, and his lungs turn to stone in his chest.

And he gags on nothing, stumbling back against Billy in the driveway.

“The fuck–”

But his protest ends when Steve turns, meets his eyes. Something like recognition stares back and then Hargrove is pushing on his back. Leading him up to the house.

“We should go to school.” Steve manages to say softly, to no one in particular, his heart racing in his chest. He tries not to think about white snowflakes and endless tunnels. Tries not to let the memories swallow him whole.

“You need to sleep.” Billy says. And he’s probably right.

They cross the threshold, stomping their feet and stripping their coats, and when Steve starts towards the living room, he’s surprised by a hand grabbing his arm, pulling him back. “In a _bed_.”

“I don’t sleep.” He says.

But he doesn’t resist when Billy tugs him towards the stairs and he follows when Billy climbs. Socked feet on carpeted steps, he pads along quietly, numbly, and he doesn’t really get that he’s followed Billy into the guest bedroom until he’s standing at the foot of the bed, stripping out of his socks in a trance.

Sees Billy _staring_ at him. Eyes wide.

“Sorry.” He mutters, goes for the door.

“It’s a big bed, Harrington.” Billy calls.

And it’s funny how the statement sounds _a lot_ like an invitation. Steve tries not to think about _that_ as he wordlessly leaves and shuffles down the hall. Tries not to think about how it’d feel to not sleep alone.


End file.
